


The Power of Distraction

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Wincest, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Suicide Attempt, dub con, non con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-01-13 03:16:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1210612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A hunt leaves Sam unexpectedly shaken up, but there is something more to this emotional trauma than meets the eye. When Sam is in trouble, Dean has to find a way to distract him.<br/>Eventual wincest, but mostly angst and comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The hunt had been a hard one, the spirit they had fought being so full of vengeful fury that even Dean was somewhat shaken. Sam gazed out of the window in silence all the way back to the motel, trying to ignore the pain caused by what he was pretty sure (and he was normally right about this sort of thing, he thought dejectedly) were at least 3 broken ribs, and Dean drove, eyes on the road. By the time they parked up outside the motel, his whole body was aching, and his head reeled. His grunt of pain as he got out of the car earned him a concerned look from Dean, although he looked away when Sam made eye contact. It took all his effort not to shout at his brother as he fumbled with the keys to the room, leaving him waiting with the heavy bag. Perhaps he was hurt more than he thought; he could usually deal with pain, but this was different. This time there was something more… emotional.

Dean unlocked the door and stood back to allow Sam in. Once in, Sam dropped the bag onto one of the beds and sighed heavily, before sitting down and pushing his hair back out of his face with one hand. He frowned slightly; eyes closed, and allowed himself to fall back onto the (surprisingly soft and comfortable) mattress. He could hear Dean busying himself around the room, and would have fallen asleep if it weren’t for his brother’s voice breaking the quiet. ‘I’m gonna get some food. Take a shower or something, Sam, you’ll feel better.’ There was a note of pity in Dean’s voice that for some reason made Sam angry, and he snapped back that he was fine, despite his efforts to sit up and the break in his voice betraying him. Dean knew it was pointless to argue with Sam about this sort of thing though, and shrugged before leaving the motel room and closing the door behind him.

As soon as Sam was sure Dean was gone, he carefully got up from the bed and moved over to the mirror. Wincing at the action, he pulled his blood-stained t-shirt up to reveal his stomach and chest. The bruising was bad; part of his chest was already a deep purple-red. He winced again and cursed quietly to himself – it was going to take a long time to heal. Maybe taking a shower was a good idea after all. The spirit had produced so much ectoplasm that Sam felt almost coated in it, physically and mentally. He walked over to the fridge and took out a beer (the effort of bending over to reach them almost too much). Opening the beer, Sam turned the bathroom light on. To his surprise, there was no shower; only a toilet, a basin and a white bathtub. A surge of sudden and uncontrollable anger washed over him – for a moment he felt the intense heat and dizziness of fever and fell towards the sink, steadying himself on the edge, hands shaky. A quiet voice of reason told him he had dropped his bottle. Sam ground his teeth together and straightened, looking defiantly into the mirror. What the hell had just happened?

Sam returned to the bedroom and turned on the TV, out of habit (too many shared motel rooms with Dean) tuning in to Dr. Sexy MD. But 15 minutes into the episode and he could no longer watch the patients die and the doctors flirt impotently at each other. He switched the TV off, lay back, one forearm covering his eyes, and slid into a light sleep. He was awoken by his brother calling his name. He jerked upright, before remembering his injuries and almost shouting in pain and frustration. Dean was instantly, reflexively moving towards him. But this time, Sam waved Dean away, repeating that he was fine. Dean sighed. ‘No, Sam, you’re not. I saw that. Let me help.’ Sam closed his eyes and dropped his head back onto the pillow. Why did he have such a problem with Dean helping him tonight? 

Dean sat beside him on the bed, trying to maintain his concerned eye contact with Sam, as one might with a frightened animal. Suddenly, Sam understood Dean’s concern. He could see into Dean’s mind and replayed, in painful detail, all the times he’d let his big brother down. All the times he’d turned away from Dean – from everything that was good – to Ruby, to living soulless, to everything he’d done, everything he’d said to Dean, every hurtful comment that he’d always convinced himself he had no control over – it wasn’t you; it was Ruby’s fault, it was because you didn’t have a soul, you weren’t YOU, you can’t be blamed – and all along it had been him it had been him from the very start always letting Dean down and – 

‘Sam? SAM!’ He was dragged back into the present by Dean’s very real and immediate voice, his face close to Sam’s, eyes wide in panic. ‘Woah, Dean, what?’ Sam asked, eyes focussing on the room around him as if he hadn’t seen it in a long time. ‘Dude, what happened there? You were… you were gone… could you hear me? Sam?’ but Sam’s eyes had glazed over again ‘SAM!’ Dean shouted. He could see the pain on his brother’s face, and Dean watched, horrified, as Sam was transformed into a frightened child – eyes wide in fear, lips frantically muttering, twisting out words that Dean could not hear or understand. The possibility (despite the tattoo) of possession crossed Dean’s mind, and he grabbed the bottle of holy water on the bedside cabinet, holding onto Sam’s shaking shoulder with one hand and splashing the cold contents onto his brother with the other. Sam gasped and his eyes widened, but he did not scream; this was not possession. 

Sam could only distantly feel the cold splash, as if through a layer of oil beneath which he was trapped. He tried, frantically, to fight his way up to breathe, but to no avail. He was in an ocean of dark oil. Sinking. Or being dragged down. Being dragged down just as he had been dragged down before, to somewhere dark, hot, alone, full of eternal screaming and infernal agony. Being dragged down into the bowels of the Earth – just as he had been being dragged from the moment Azazel came into that house in Kansas – from then, inescapably, towards his fate and to what inevitably followed - what should have followed - he had had too many chances and now he was going to have to pay – Lucifer had come to collect on the debt and this time nothing was going to save him – 

Dean had tried shouting at Sam. He had held him by the shoulders and shaken him. He was becoming frantic and was desperate to stop whatever Sam was going through. In a last effort he pulled Sam’s shivering body into his and held tight. Sam shook and cried out, but Dean continued to hold onto his brother, eyes closed, arms enclosing Sam tightly as his shaking subsided and the crying out turned merely to mumbling incoherent words into Dean’s shoulder. The brothers breathed deeply together, Sam confused and disorientated, but strangely glad of this sudden affection, Dean relieved that whatever Sam had been suffering was over. After a few minutes, Dean felt Sam’s body slacken, and realised that he had fallen asleep. He gently lay Sam back onto the pillow and got up, watching him sleep – seemingly peacefully. 

But Dean was restless. What had caused that? What had been going on inside Sam’s head that had caused such an extreme and distressed reaction? It wasn’t a demon. So what? A djinn? Possession by a spirit? Witchcraft? After searching the room for hex-bags, Dean opened his brother’s laptop and switched it on. His eyes rested on the loading screen, deep in thought. There had to be something, he decided. Some explanation. Fighting the urge to sleep, he logged on and opened the internet. Dean tried to avoid the worries that plagued him. Sam had been through so much… maybe this was it… maybe he was going the same way as Martin, and so many other hunters before him. No. He was going to find something that was causing this. Anything. Anything would be better than the alternative.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having a go at writing a more serious and longer fic, over a few chapters. This will lead to some Wincest towards the end, but it kind of just gets more and more angsty (probably because I've just rewatched the S8 finale), so sorry about that :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Sam move to the bunker, but Sam's problem proves difficult to shake.

Many unsuccessful hours browsing various search engines had left Dean in a state of only semi-awakeness. He leant his elbows on the table and rested is face in his hands, sighing deeply. He didn’t want to have to leave Sam (the thought alone made him feel anxious and guilty), but he was only going to find the answer in one place. The Men of Letters had kept records of everything they had ever encountered, (and they’d been around for a hell of a long time, thought Dean). There was bound to be something. He stood up and stretched his back out, looking over at Sam. Dean was sure he saw the slightest flicker of Sam’s eyelids, and walked over to the edge of his bed. As if sensing him there, Sam’s eyes opened. He was surprised by Dean’s concerned presence and quickly shuffled up the bed into a sitting position, blinking and frowning. ‘Woah there, Sammy. It’s just me.’ Dean reassured his brother in the calmest tone he could manage. Sam relaxed, but continued to look around the room as if it were new to him. After a moment, Sam returned his gaze to Dean. This time (Dean noticed with relief) there was no fear or pain. Sam was just… well, Sam. 

Sam broke the eye contact before Dean, asking his brother as he stood up if everything was okay. Dean realised that Sam had completely forgotten the events of the night before. ‘Of course it is. When is everything ever not okay?’ Dean replied with a sarcastic grin, but Sam was busily splashing water on his face in the motel bathroom. Dean hesitated. ‘But, uh, Sam?’ Maybe he should explain what was going on. ‘Yeah?’ Sam came out of the bathroom, drying his face and hands on a towel before throwing it onto his bed and moving towards his brother with a concerned expression. But Dean was having second thoughts. ‘Yes, Dean?’ Sam had come closer and looked worried. ‘Uuh, we should probably, you know… Head off?’ Sam’s eyes momentarily searched Dean’s, sensing he was avoiding something, but then he nodded and turned away to pack. 

Sam and Dean checked out of the motel and swung their bags into the boot of the Impala. For Dean, there was no question about who would drive, and he glanced anxiously at Sam so many times during the journey that Sam had begun to meet his looks with confused expressions of his own. Pulling up in front of the Bunker, Dean felt himself relax. There was something comforting about just being in this place. That and he was sure the archives would hold the answer to what had happened to his brother. Sam opened the boot of the car and carried his and Dean’s bags into the Bunker, whilst Dean locked up, carefully checking that the doors were secure. Dean looked up into the leaves over his head, allowing his mind to wander as he mentally digested what had happened. He still refused to believe that it could just be Sam. But the single, short frenzy of fear didn’t seem to him like possession. He leaned on the side of the Impala as he thought, eyes distant, frowning slightly. Perhaps it could be something else: something he hadn’t heard of, or encountered – 

Dean’s train of thought was abruptly cut off by a noise from within the Bunker. At first, Dean thought it was an animal call – some noise of panic caused by a trap, maybe – but, replaying it in his head as he ran into the bunker’s dark interior, he realised it was not. That noise had been Sam. Dean called out as he leapt down the small flight of steps in the main entrance. After a moment, there was a reply; a shout of ‘DEAN’ from the library. Dean instinctively turned and ran towards the sound. Entering the library, he bounded up the steps and looked frantically around him. At first, he could not see his brother, and was about to call again when he noticed a huddled form in the corner. Dean ran over to Sam and knelt beside him, one hand tightly gripping his shaking shoulder and the other trying to push his huddled body upright. But Sam was strong, and he only shook more violently and cried out again. 

Lucifer was there. Satan. The Devil. The being Sam had spent so long in hell with, as his bitch, his chew toy, his (as Lucifer had always liked to say and repeated now, walking towards Sam) Bunk Buddy. He had been here, waiting. He must have waited for a long time, but when Sam came in he was sitting, eminently calm, feet up on the shiny table and legs crossed. Sam had turned to run, but found he could not. He was bound by razor sharp wire that cut and burned, making him want to scream. But he could not. Nor could he call for help or to warn Dean. He could barely make a sound, let alone a coherent message. Lucifer had risen, slowly, from his seat, and moved towards Sam. Every step tortured Sam as he huddled, unable to move – unable to do anything except watch his captor, his torturer, stroll towards him as all hope vanished and he could see ahead of him once more only the pain and suffering, the all-obliterating, blinding agony of hell and the endless stretch of time because, as Lucifer was saying, he had all the time in the world and he could do anything he wanted – use any method he could think of to hurt Sam and amuse himself – and (leaning down to whisper in Sam’s ear) he had an active imagination... 

Dean pulled Sam in close and held him to his chest, as he had in the motel. His eyes were wild as he frantically scanned the room for something that could be doing this, but found nothing. Holding Sam tightly, Dean reached one hand up and stroked his hair, reassuring him that everything was going to be okay, that he would find a way to stop this. But none of it was getting through. Dean suddenly realised that he was unable to ease his brother’s suffering – that which had worked last time seemed not to work again. Dean held Sam by the shoulders and pulled away to look into his eyes, searching for a connection – a thread of calm that would allow him to reach his brother. But there was nothing. All Dean saw in Sam’s eyes was fear, in its purest form. 

Dean felt helpless. There seemed to be nothing he could do to help Sam, and his suffering was evident in what was now violent shaking and the tearful face of a terrified child. Then it suddenly came to him. The idea was totally irrational, but Dean had no other choice. He looked deep into Sam’s eyes for a moment, searching for any objection from him, and then pushed his lips into Sam's in a fumbling kiss. 

Dean had only once before kissed another man, and he was too drunk to remember it (only realising he had at all by the painful stubble burn the next day). He closed his eyes and let the strangely natural feeling of warmth spread through him. As he knelt beside Sam on the library floor, some distant part of Dean registered that what he was doing was wrong, but he did not care. In fact, he was enjoying it… At first, Sam was unresponsive, but as Dean continued the kiss, he began to reciprocate. Dean pulled away for a moment to look into his eyes; he was not going to force Sam into anything. But Sam’s eyes, though still wet with tears, were now trusting yet unfamiliarly lustful. Dean ducked his head and kissed along Sam’s jawline, positioning his body so that he knelt one knee over Sam’s leg. He no longer felt that he had control over his body; this was so instinctual, felt so right.  
Sam let his head fall back against the wall. He had no idea how this situation had come about, and he was sure that normally he would push Dean away and get out of there. But this time he felt strangely comforted by the unexpected affection, and had no desire to fight the urge to return it. Although he did feel (fighting the urge to yawn even in this aroused state) very… sleepy – 

Dean pulled away. The reciprocation from Sam had stopped and he had a sudden and overwhelming fear that he had taken it too far, that he had misread Sam’s body language and overstepped the line between them. But instead of looking surprised or disgusted, Sam seemed to be asleep. Noting the gentle rise and fall of his chest, Dean gently leant his slumped brother against the library wall and stood up, moving away from him and rubbing his tired eyes. He needed sleep but Sam was more important right now. Lucky they were in the library, thought Dean, looking around him. What he needed had to be here somewhere. Trying to put all thoughts of what he had just done out of his mind, Dean walked over to the corner table, poured himself a generous whisky, and began to browse.

Hours later, Dean (head and eyes aching and half asleep) finally found what he had been looking for. A journal section from a 15th Century French priest contained (clumsily Google translated from Latin) ‘By means of spirit's infernal filth a man he desires, is made mad and to commit the deepest sin. For a man who, by the power of spirit violence commits against God shall burn for ever in hell the deepest.’ Dean sat back in his chair and rubbed his eyes, yawning and fighting sleep. ‘Infernal filth’ could mean ectoplasm. But he had never heard of a spirit controlling someone through it. On the other hand, no other explanation fitted Sam’s situation so perfectly: ‘the fear is driving of man and comfort lost…’, Dean continued to read, ‘until death alone is the best decision’. Dean started. That couldn’t mean… Dean didn’t even want to consider the possibility, but he forced himself to re-read it. He couldn’t be mistaken. This meant suicide. 

Dean took another swig of whisky. His reading pace was quickening, desperate to find a cure for Sam before it was too late, but his eyes could hardly focus. How long had he been reading? 6, maybe 7 hours? How long since he last slept? Far too long. He yawned again. But he needed to find a way to end this, some way to release… (Dean’s train of thought slowing as his head lowered towards the table) ... Sam from the… (eyes blinking heavily, Dean fighting to keep them open, reading only single, disjointed words) … all the things…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this isn't too angsty. The final chapter (the next one) will have more Wincest in it; the more of this I write, the more focussed on angst and plot I get... (which is weird for me)...
> 
> As always, I appreciate any comments and I hope you enjoy! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam cannot escape this alone; it is up to Dean to help him - but time is running out...

A noise woke Dean with a start. He jerked upright, rubbing his eyes with one hand as the other reached for the scotch on the table. He had no idea what time it was, but it felt like he had slept for too long. Where was Sam? He thought back – sure something had happened last night. A cold pool of dread formed in the pit of his stomach as it came back to him. He turned around, searching for Sam in the library. He called out as he stood up, and then listened. At first, silence. Then a faint series of clicks. Dean could barely even be sure he had heard them, but as soon as he did he was running out of the library towards the noise, frantically calling Sam’s name. That had been the sound of a loading gun.

Dean ran through the bunker, calling out, his mind racing – what if he could not find Sam in time? – what if he couldn’t find a way to stop it? – what would he do without his brother? Dean arrived, panting, at the door to his own bedroom. Closed. He was sure he hadn’t left it closed. He reached out and took the cold handle in his hand. Turning it, he pushed hard on the door. But the door did not move. He pushed again, shoving it with his shoulder. A tiny budge. Sam had levered something under the knob to stop the door. But Dean would not allow that. He would not just stand in the corridor while his brother… while… Dean had trouble even imagining what could happen (what _is_ happening, a petulant voice told him) Dean stepped back from the door, shaking his head. No. He could not let this happen. He lunged towards the door and kicked it as hard as he could. With his eyes closed against the impact he could not see the result, but he heard the splintering of wood at the hinges as the door broke. He clambered over the remains of the door and looked around his room. At first, he could not see Sam (the thought of being too late making his stomach drop with dread), but then he caught sight of a shape the other side of the bed. Sam was, once again, huddled on the floor like a terrified child. Dean crossed the room quickly, moving towards his brother. But Sam was up faster. There was something puppet-like in the way he stood, threatening to fall at any moment, as if he really was being held up from above. But that did not make his aiming his revolver at Dean any less threatening. Dean froze. He was just over a metre away from his brother, and even at this distance he could feel the furious heat radiating off him. Sam’s face was tear-streaked and his eyes red. More than anything else, Dean wanted to hold his brother like they used to. To comfort him, and tell him it was all going to be okay, and for Sam to believe him. He began to talk. He didn’t know what he was saying, most likely making comforting sounds in the hope it would calm Sam down enough to take the gun.

Sam could hear Dean speaking, and he wanted to be comforted by it – to allow what he was saying in and to believe it. But it was no use. He knew that Dean’s words weren’t true. Dean just had to pretend he didn’t want to lose him; they both knew he’d be better off alone. They could never be true brothers. They hadn’t been brothers since that night, 22 years ago, that night when he had become something else – something inhuman, some freak of nature that Dean then had to deal with, just another thing that Sam was putting on his brother so no, he could never believe Dean (he began to raise the gun) and he was going to do what was right for both of them (opening his mouth) what he should have done all along – he’d made so many excuses for himself and now (placing the gun between his teeth and biting down on the cold metal) he was going to do what was right. Sam closed his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger.

The room started to change and ripple, like watching the outside world from under water. Sam felt himself fall and wondered, calmly, whether he had done it. He hadn’t felt any pain, nor heard a shot. He could feel a presence (Dean?) drop to one knee beside him and reach across, taking the gun from his hand. The light seemed to throb, like those high-school science videos of blood coursing through capillaries, and Sam couldn’t seem to make sense of the sounds around him. Until the shape beside him became clear, and a voice through the white noise whispered mockingly ‘rise and shine, Sammy.’ He’d been wrong; it wasn’t Dean at all; Dean had left. The presence beside him was Lucifer. He had stopped Sam from going through with it. Sam looked helplessly around. There was no escape – as Lucifer mocked – not even suicide would release him.

Dean could not have stood back and watched Sam pull the trigger. He had moved forward and reached for the gun, but Sam’s eyes had flickered closed and he had begun to fall to the floor, Dean unable to catch him, but instinctively moving forwards anyway. Dean had knelt beside his brother, repeating ‘Sammy?’ before reaching over and gently unhooking his brother’s fingers from the gun, placing it on the bedside table. Dean wanted to believe it was over, but some nagging voice at the back of his mind told him it wasn’t – something that was verified as Sam’s body stiffened and spasms ran through him. Dean could do nothing as his brother grimaced through gritted teeth and strained as if trying to break invisible bonds.

Sam wanted to scream and cry out, but something was stopping him. He was bound tightly with sharp wire, and he could feel it cutting into his wrists as if it was being pulled tighter every second. He couldn’t see anything, but he could hear Lucifer as he danced around him (helpless on what seemed to be a thick wooden table). As Lucifer passed he whispered what he planned to do into Sam’s ear, and Sam could feel his cold breath on his neck, making him shiver with disgust and fear. Sometimes Lucifer would trail what felt like a hot knife along Sam’s exposed neck or face, the metal burning as it went. Merely being in the presence of this… being… the Devil, with whom he had spent so long, made all of Sam’s nerves tingle and ache. He knew what was to come, but had to face the (all too familiar) feeling of dread and anticipation, the long, slow build up and increasing pain, until Lucifer would let him die and he would at least have a few seconds of unconsciousness. 

Dean leaned over his brother and tried to hold him still, to stop the tremors passing through him. But Sam was too strong. Dean knew what he had to do, (his research having uncovered ‘pleasure’ as a cure) but some rational voice in the back of his mind was screaming that this was wrong – that he shouldn’t even be contemplating it. But even as he did, Dean remembered the (all too short) heat and heady desire of their last encounter in the library, and felt the first tingles of arousal once more. Dean leaned low over his brother, one hand on each shoulder, still trying to steady and comfort him. As before, Dean’s eyes searched Sam’s for any hint of what he should do, but finding no objection (in fact, finding nothing but terror), he pressed his lips once more onto Sam’s.

Lucifer bent down over Sam, whispering into his ear, pondering his next method of torture aloud. Sam gritted his teeth as Lucifer recapped how every pain had a different outcome, each ridding him of something – love, hope, the slowly shrinking possibility of ever escaping. ‘And now,’ whispered the forked tongue, so close to Sam’s neck it made him shiver, ‘and now, for the grand finale. Because, Samuel, what _is_ a man without his dignity?’ Sam shut his eyes, trying to block out what was happening, trying not to even consider how Lucifer would rid him of his dignity… But the thought was cut short by the feeling of cold lips touching his. At first, he tried to pull away, turning his head to avoid Lucifer’s kiss, hot, angry tears welling in his eyes as he realised how helpless he was, how complete Lucifer’s control was, what was bound to happen next.

Dean pulled away. Sam had definitely tried to avoid that kiss. He couldn’t do this if Sam didn’t want it; it was wrong enough already. Dean sat back on his haunches, tears welling in his eyes as he watched his brother helplessly. But there was nothing else he could do. There was no way he was letting Sammy die like this. Resolving (with his cock once more stiffening as he placed one leg either side of Sam’s thigh) to do whatever it took, Dean pushed the hair out of Sam’s face and leant towards him. He put his lips to Sam’s ear, whispering words of comfort and apologies; still not sure that what he was doing was right. But his body was screaming otherwise.

Sam could feel one of Lucifer’s hands trailing down his chest, an unnervingly gentle and almost caring touch. It made him shudder as it reached the waistband of his trousers. At this point Lucifer pulled away from the kiss and looked reproachfully at him. Wordlessly, he reproved Sam, fixing him with a penetrating stare that somehow forced his victim into stillness. The roving hand had, by now, unbuttoned Sam’s trousers and was delving inside. Sam stiffened. He would never admit or accept it, but there had always been something between him and this demon - as much as he had tried to escape the angelic design, they were made for each other. And now Lucifer would know. Sam felt the icy touch slide down inside his jeans and heard Lucifer’s gasp in mock surprise at Sam’s hardness. He could feel Lucifer turning to verify his findings by sight – an act almost pantomimic in its slow humiliation of Sam. Sam closed his eyes and pushed his head back, grinding his teeth. There was no way he could meet Lucifer’s gaze as he looked back at Sam with a new light in his eyes. Lucifer moved around until he was standing behind Sam’s head, one hand still exploring Sam’s groin as the other twisted a strand of his hair. He rested his chin beside Sam’s face on the table, looking thoughtfully at him as Sam defiantly avoided his eyes. For a moment there was silence, and then Sam heard a thin whisper, so close to his ear it could almost be inside his head: ‘you might as well let yourself… enjoy it.’ With these words Lucifer’s hand suddenly grasped Sam’s stiffening cock and began to stroke it firmly and insistently. Too late, Sam tried in vain to suppress a quiet moan. He cringed as Lucifer smiled approvingly.

Dean had reached down and undone his brother’s jeans, feeling the stiffness as the motion of his body between Sam’s legs had begun to have its undeniable effect. Dean was feeling the same tightness in his own jeans, but this was not for him. This was only to help (try to help, an ignored voice of reason corrected him) Sam. Despite this, Dean couldn’t deny how good it felt to be like this with Sam, and as he rubbed himself along Sam’s thigh and reached into his jeans, he shuddered with pleasure. He felt Sam’s cock instantly stiffen more, the response urging Dean onwards. He dropped his head down towards his brother’s shoulder and closed his eyes, revelling in the heat and urgent desire that he hadn’t felt for what seemed like years. Dean’s hand began to find a rhythm, stroking firmly down his brother’s length and rocking against his thigh. Hearing a quiet moan from Sam, Dean raised his head in relief and panting appreciation – Sam was enjoying this. ‘That’s more like it, Sammy,’ he breathed into his brother’s hair.

Sam began to move with Lucifer’s rhythm, involuntarily rolling his hips up to meet the demon’s icy touch. His eyes were shut tight. He could barely admit to himself that he could be enduring this – let alone enjoying it – let alone nearing his release. Lucifer pushed his face into Sam’s hair, letting him feel the cold breath on his hot skin. ‘That’s more like it…’ he muttered, almost to himself ‘…Sammy.’ Suddenly, Sam’s breath hitched in his throat. That was what Dean would say. If Dean could see him now… What would his brother think of him? He couldn’t even call him his brother. Sam was something else. Some freak. Some disgusting, unnatural creature. He could almost hear Dean saying it. Revulsion suddenly rose up and hit Sam. He gagged at the all-too-familiar smell of sulphur. He choked out a sob, shuddering with loathing and disgust – not only for Lucifer, but also for himself; for what he had become. He jerked against his bonds, a cry tearing from his throat – and found his hands free. In an instant, he pulled the gun from where Lucifer had left it. His practiced hands loaded it and positioned it at the back of Lucifer’s head. When fired, Sam would be able to kill both of them with the same bullet. No time for Lucifer to stop him.

Dean had his head buried in Sam’s shoulder, hearing only the combined panting as each of them neared their climax, and the rasp of denim on denim. He looked up all too late, just as he felt the muzzle of the revolver pushed into the base of his skull.

Lucifer looked up at Sam, meeting his gaze. He looked… almost apologetic. Sam breathed deeply, trying to take control of his shaking hand. Lucifer’s hand merely sped up, clearly sensing that Sam was near the end.

Dean stared deep into Sam’s eyes. He searched for anything of his brother. Sam had paused. Dean could feel his hands shaking, and increased the speed of his own hand, praying that he wouldn’t be too late.

Sam was having trouble. If only Lucifer would smile. Mock him. Something. Anything now would push him over the edge. But Lucifer just stared into his eyes as his hand continued to stroke him, bringing him throbbingly close to climax.

Dean knew his brother was close.  His eyes were shut and he was biting down hard on his bottom lip, fighting the climax as he tried to concentrate.

Sam tightened his trigger grip. If he just squeezed –

Suddenly, Sam stopped breathing. His eyes flew open, focussing on something beyond what Dean could see. His body stiffened and his hips bucked as he came into Dean’s hand. He cried out, a guttural half-moan, half shout, followed by a spasm so violent Dean was thrown onto the floor. He looked back at his brother. Sam’s back arched, and his mouth opened to emit a stream of bright and fiery reddish light. It curled out of Sam and around the room, with a piercing screech that echoed inside Dean’s skull. Reaching the ceiling, it formed a lake of red smoke and light, before bursting into flames.

Dean looked back to Sam. He was awake. ‘Sammy!’ Sam’s eyes focussed on Dean. His relief was obvious. He called back and his voice broke in panic and confusion. Dean reached over. For a second, he held Sam's arm, appreciating the control, the un-feverish flesh and the strength that was so clearly Sam. Then, hooking it tightly around his shoulders, he pulled Sam up and began to run towards the remains of the door, both brothers fighting their way through the black and thickening smoke as the room began to burn in earnest.

Just as they had done so many years before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah... sorry about the abrupt ending; I kind of wanted to leave it up to the reader to decide if they make it out of the bunker (depending on your mood). I think some bits were quite OOC, but I recon overall it holds together okay... :) I'm really sorry this has taken so long... exams... *bent wrist to perspiring forehead*
> 
> But yeah. As usual, comments appreciated and I hope you enjoyed (if 'enjoy' is really the right word here...) :D


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